


When the Loving Starts

by elle_nic



Series: peaches... the lesbian apple [1]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Domestic, F/F, Fluff, Love, SOFT AS FUCK, Sort of a songfic but not really, andy likes to clean, miranda likes andy, say you love me by fleetwood mac inspired this, so did charlottepriestly, thats the fic, who i adore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24074506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_nic/pseuds/elle_nic
Summary: “It’s not what it looks like!” Andy cried. Only... It's exactly what it looks like.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Series: peaches... the lesbian apple [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745503
Comments: 21
Kudos: 311





	When the Loving Starts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [charlottepriestly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottepriestly/gifts).



> For Charlotte, who broke my heart with her most recent fic. This is how they're supposed to live, you animal. Soft and in love! >:( I still love you but my heart is bruised.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this frankly mediocre oneshot. Stay safe, stay at home!
> 
> Elle x

It was supposed to be less tense at _Runway_ while Miranda was in California for a photoshoot, and for the most part, It was. Emily was less… herself, and Nigel had creative freedom to do what he thought was best in Miranda’s stead. One thing that Andy did admire about her boss was that when she was away, she let Nigel do whatever he liked and she would keep his decisions. It was especially poignant after Paris, but they don’t really talk about that.

As it were, everything was happening to plan. Nigel was keeping up with his workload and the run throughs that were usually Miranda’s responsibility. Emily was bossing everyone within an inch of their lives (Andy was not surprised in the least to learn that Emily had four older brothers). And Andy? Andy was doing everything in between to keep their machine oiled, so to speak. 

‘Jack of all trades’ was what she’d started calling herself when Janette from Accessories enlisted her help with organising the Closet’s jewellery. Enough people had seen the two of them going through every necklace, bracelet, earring and anklet they had on hand and decided that, yes, they too needed Andy’s help thereafter. She didn’t mind, of course. She liked to be helpful, and with Miranda not there to demand a new coffee every hour, or a run to get skirts or scarves, she was grossly underworked. Or maybe that was the Stockholm syndrome talking.

Whatever it was, it meant that Andy leapt to the task when Cara, Miranda’s usual housekeeper, informed Andy that the townhouse had not been cleaned. A cancellation with the cleaner, she had said on the phone, and no one would take the job as it was a public holiday the day before Miranda got back. It meant that the house wouldn’t be cleaned and _that_ meant that Andy at the least would be fired. 

“Don’t worry, Cara. I’ll handle it.”

“Are you sure?”

Andy smiled.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” 

Miranda was due back on the coming Sunday and the Friday before was a public holiday. That meant that no cleaning agencies, especially the high end one Miranda preferred, would be available to clean the townhouse. It was just as well that Andy had Friday off of work and had nothing better to do now that she had no friends. Truth be told, she did love to clean. So, another plus, right?

Andy acknowledged that the townhouse had five floors (how could she not if she intended to clean them), but she decided that the smaller floor sizes would work in her favour. And if worse came to worse then she could always come back on Saturday and finish the rest. 

“It’ll be fun,” she said to her empty apartment on Thursday evening after packing supplies. Nigel had left his fancy steam mop and window cleaner at Miranda’s for her to loan, and the rest Andy could make do with on her own. She knew Miranda kept a vacuum cleaner in her coat closet at the townhouse, and apart from cleaning agents, it was all she needed for her scheme. Early Friday morning dawned with Andy already awake and on her way to Miranda’s home. She had her two duffel bags full of things, and a spritely attitude for barely five in the morning.

She started with the rooms at the top floor, stripping the beds and remaking them with clean sheets, and dusting all three rooms and then vacuuming. She left the windows until last on every floor until breaking for lunch. Andy decided to run down the street, unashamed in her yoga pants and college t-shirt, to the deli. A salad roll, and a juice for energy, and she made the short trek back to Miranda’s home, ready to start the lower two floors, which would admittedly take the most time. 

As she ate her meal in the stylish blue kitchen on the second floor, she realised how grateful she was that Miranda never washed her own linens and rather had them sent away to be dry cleaned. Her work might’ve been insurmountable otherwise. 

“Privilege has its uses, huh,” she says to no one in the empty house.

As she’s finally on the common room floors, Andy decides to treat herself to some music as she works. She’d brought her own iPod that her parents had gotten her for Christmas a few years before, and selected an upbeat playlist. She wiped surfaces to ABBA, dusted to Creedence Clearwater Revival and vacuumed to Elton John. 

It was mid-afternoon when she made it to the ground floor, and though she wasn’t doing anything terribly strenuous, Andy was tired after a week that felt like it lasted eight days rather than four. 

“Something chill,” she mumbled, searching through her playlists for something to clean the ground floor to. She found a playlist that she’d had since high school and transferred over when she got her iPod. It’s mostly Fleetwood Mac and exactly what she wanted to hear as she mopped the hardwood floor and disinfected surfaces.

 _“‘Cause when the loving starts and the lights go down,”_ she sings, moving her hips to the beat, unaware of her surroundings, which she assumes remains vacant of onlookers.

_“Woo me until the sun comes up, and you say that you love-”_

“Andréa,” Miranda’s voice, a voice home far too early, sounded.

Andy spun around with the mop in her hand (which she would not admit to using as a microphone stand) and stared, gobsmacked, at Miranda Priestly in the foyer of her home. 

“It’s not what it looks like!”

.-=-.

Miranda was exhausted, not in a sleepy sense. No, she was exhausted by the sheer stupidity that surrounded her whenever she left on _Runway_ business that wasn’t a shoot. It’s a wonder the people around her managed to figure out a camera, let alone manage a whole production. Carlos Vela was a supposed saint with a camera, but as Miranda liked to remind, all saints can do miracles, but few of them can keep a hotel. 

It was when Callie (or Carly or whatever the foolish model’s name was) threw yet another tantrum that Miranda simply turned on her heel and went straight to the airport. It was a long weekend, one of the few that she’d be treated to, and one of the few that she wouldn’t have her daughters with her. It was supposed to be one of relaxation. If she’d stayed any longer in California, it’d have been a long weekend of tearing her hair out, and her hair was one of her best features, if she did say so herself.

It was only as Miranda had touched down in La Guardia that she realised her cleaning company would probably have shut for the public holiday. She dragged herself from the terminal and into her town car, driven by faithful Roy. 

“Good shoot?” Roy asked genially. Miranda snorted dryly.

“It went about as well as the Titanic did.”

“Ouch,” Roy said with a sympathetic glance in the rearview.

“I’m not doing anything about it until nine on Monday morning,” Miranda said resolutely. She’d likely be cleaning the rest of the day and most of the next. Extra work was off the table. 

“Have a good weekend, Miranda,” her driver said, leaving her suitcase on her stoop for her to take inside. She waved him away, moving to unlock her door, pausing once she noticed the music coming from inside her home. If it was one of her employees using her home as a rendezvous (it had happened more often than one would think) she would simply wear the jail time. She could pull off orange, she was sure. 

Opening her door, she was met with the rather unforgettable sight of Andréa in a frankly ratty outfit steam-mopping her floors. Her home smelled of multi-purpose spray and whatever citrus agent her assistant was mopping the floors with. 

Puzzled, Miranda called out to catch the attention of the singing brunette.

“Andréa?”

The late afternoon light gave the slender silhouette an amber backlight, and Miranda couldn’t help but think that Andréa looked beautiful (minus the horrible clothes). Her heart, rebellious as it had become where her assistant was concerned, thumped as the music played on in the background.

_“Fallin’, fallin’, fallin’...”_

“It’s not what it looks like!”

Miranda looked down to the mop in Andréa’s hands and at the bucket of supplies near the door by Miranda’s feet.

“It looks like you’re moping my ground floor after cleaning the rest of my home.”

“Oh,” Andréa said, barely audible over the song playing still. “Then, um, I guess it’s exactly what it looks like.” Her frown was endearing as anything, Miranda thought vaguely.

“Have you been here all day?” 

Miranda finally shut the door behind her and took off her heels, sighing in relief as she did. 

“Yes, Miranda,” Andréa replied, the music pausing from it’s gentle outro.

“You didn’t need to,” Miranda said, pushing her suitcase to the coat room. “It’s a holiday.”

“I know. I wanted to.”

Miranda looked at Andréa properly then, the earnestness on her face juxtaposed by fierceness. She looked as though she were daring Miranda to scold her for her kindness, which, if it were anyone else, she might have. But this was Andréa, who did things like give up an entire day to do something for someone, not expecting anything in return. Besides, Miranda really did prefer to have her home cleaned while she travelled. 

“Well, I’ll let you finish whatever it is you have left to do here while I make dinner.”

“The fridge is empty,” Andréa informed nervously. “The milk and most of the vegetables were spoiled and rotten, so I cleaned it out. There’s olives?”

Miranda couldn’t help but laugh at her assistant’s constant attempts to be helpful. Olives, indeed.

“I do like olives, but I like Chinese better. I’ll order in.”

“Oh, I’ll only be twenty or so minutes and then I’ll be out of your hair,” the foolish (beautiful) woman said.

“Andréa, I’ll make it clear now that I’m inviting you to eat with me. Consider it a thank you for all of this,” she explained, waving a hand at her now spotless home. “I do appreciate it,” she added, ascending to get to her bedroom. 

One special fried rice, orange chicken and a container of dumplings later, Miranda was pleased to say she had successfully begun her tentative plans to woo her assistant. Andréa, Miranda learned, had an uncanny ability to mimic actors, taking a special delight in showcasing impressions of people Miranda had actually met. Miranda’s favourite was Robert De Niro. 

After they’d eaten and their evening had wound down, Miranda had decided to disappear for a moment from the rumpus room to upstairs. She was preparing a guest room for her assistant, who looked ready to drop off into sleep at any moment. It was inappropriate, she knew. It was reckless, she scolded. It was risky, she acknowledged. She didn’t care in the slightest. 

“Andréa,” she said to a lightly dozing brunette. Miranda could have kissed her, and she hoped that sometime in the near future, she might have the liberty to do just that. She settled for leading her guest to her room and wishing her a good night. 

Settling into her own bed, freshly made and cleanly scented, Miranda thanked Christie or Charlotte (or whatever her name was) for throwing that tantrum. Silver linings, indeed.

.-=-.

_3 Years Later_

“Do you remember when you used your day off to clean while I was away?”

Andy rolled her eyes and smiled as she continued to do the dishes.

“You remind me every time you see me doing housework,” she quipped.

“Don’t exaggerate,” Miranda chides lightly from behind her newspaper. _The Mirror_ must be especially interesting for her to hide behind it, Andy thinks. 

“I think you like seeing me like this,” Andy muses. “Messy bun and a general housewife vibe… Do you perhaps have a kink, Miranda?” Putting the last mug on the rack and letting the water down the drain, Andy dried her hands and stalked to Miranda, who had remained curiously silent.

Eyes sparkling with mischief, Andy reached for the coffee to refill Miranda’s mug. She leaned over the table in a way that emphasised her… assets. Suddenly, Miranda was less interested in her paper. 

“There y’are, sugar,” Andy purrs with a saucy wink and facetiously thick southern accent. Miranda snorted and reached to grab her partner around the waist. Andy nearly spilled the carafe of coffee, but managed to fall into Miranda’s lap without any scalds (metaphoric and literal, that is). A sound kiss is firmly pressed to her mouth, and by that gesture alone, Andy can tell they’ll be spending their long weekend in bed.

“It’s you,” Miranda mumbled hours later, after they’ve had and been had by each other. 

“Hmm?” Andy was close to sleep, so naturally, Miranda wanted to start a conversation.

“It’s not a housewife kink, or whatever your accusation was. It’s just you. Seeing you do things for me has always _done things for me_ , you might say.”

Andy huffed a laugh and rolled further into Miranda’s side, kissing her neck and stroking her stomach.

“You’re lucky my love language is service,” she quipped.

“I’m lucky, full-stop,” Miranda returned, kissing along Andy’s hairline.

“Stop buttering me up. I’ll put out again after a nap.” 

Miranda pinched her side gently in retaliation.

“I’m supposed to be the easily fatigued one out of the two of us.”

“Maybe, but like I said, my love language is _service_.” The innuendo was as clear as it was offensive.

Miranda gasped in mock outrage and immediately rolled on top of Andy and showed her just how _serviceable_ she could be.

Hours later, while Miranda was napping and Andy was about to do the same, she thanked whatever gods were listening that her life had gone the way it had. 

_Fallin’, fallin’, fallin’._

_Fallin’, fallin’, fallin’._


End file.
